


I'm Put to Mind of All That I Wanna Be

by Ukthxbye



Series: drabbles and prompts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Drinking, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Post-Break Up, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Smoking, Touching, these two can talk around their feelings like experts, they can avoid the elephants in the room like professionals, unspoken thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 15:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ukthxbye/pseuds/Ukthxbye
Summary: Sleep is a luxury of clear and empty minds. Something Sherlock Holmes was never cursed to experience. But some curse nonetheless plagues him tonight. Wandering the streets, he keeps walking steadily in the cold, feeling his skin tingle with the icy air. It distracts from another itch.But his mind had led him to a door, one he has crossed many times over the years, secretly finding refuge. The warmth of the lights from her window and the prospect of conversation enticing, subduing the desire for something more chemical.He pauses at her door, listening for sounds of movement and confirming, he knocks gently. He prepares for all manner of reactions, he’s had them all, but her soft footsteps to her door ease the tension and she opens the door with a demeanor of neutral familiarity.He smiles, and she shakes her head but smiles back, "Come on in."





	I'm Put to Mind of All That I Wanna Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> from tumblr prompt on Holidaysat221b tumblr
> 
> Post Tom/Molly break-up (pre- or post-HLV), Molly says to Sherlock "Just when I got used to feeling wanted, he took that feeling back. Like it wasn’t mine to have. Like he gave it to me by accident.“

Sleep is a luxury of clear and empty minds. Something Sherlock Holmes was never cursed to experience. But some curse nonetheless plagues him tonight. Wandering the streets, he keeps walking steadily in the cold, feeling his skin tingle with the icy air. _It distracts from another itch._

 

But his mind had led him to a door, one he has crossed many times over the years, secretly finding refuge. The warmth of the lights from her window and the prospect of conversation enticing, subduing the desire for something more chemical.

 

He pauses at her door, listening for sounds of movement and confirming, he knocks gently. He prepares for all manner of reactions, he’s had them all, but her soft footsteps to her door ease the tension and she opens the door with a demeanor of neutral familiarity.

 

He smiles, and she shakes her head but smiles back, "Come on in."

 

Toby wraps around his legs for a moment, but with a light push from his foot, the cat moves on.

 

“I saw you were awake…”

 

“Yeah, it's one of those nights I guess,” she answers walking through her sitting room toward her kitchen. She has a jumper on, jeans and some bright wool socks.

 

Her flat is much warmer than the chill outside and he finds his skin returning the blood to proper placement. He sits on the sofa.

 

“I guess neither one of us could sleep.”

 

He nods.

 

Silence between them as she shifts some plates to the sink.

 

“Haven't seen you in a few days,” she offers to break the ice.

 

“Yes, several cases, though nothing of note to discuss,” he says with irritation. He shivers at the thought that leaps in his brain of walking out of her flat and finding a high.

 

She turns leaning on the counter facing the sitting room, examining his behavior. _He won’t admit it, he is bored and I was a last resort,_ she thinks.

 

 _She must know why I am here, that I need the distraction,_ he muses. He pulls out his phone, checking on messages.

 

She wipes her hands on her jeans as she comes around the bar.

 

A quiet sigh.

 

“You got a cigarette?”

 

His focus on his mobile, he answers absently, “Maybe” but caught himself, _wait._ His mouth dropping in a frown.

 

“You don’t smoke.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Molly…”

 

“I used to... just... do you have one?”

 

“You don’t need to smoke then” he looks up expectedly, holding her gaze.

 

Those brown eyes, steady and dark, do not relent and she holds up a hand as she steps toward him. Open palm waiting.

 

“I know you have one.” Fingers curl to palm a few times, insistent for the request. _Just give me a damn cigarette._

 

He searches his coat pockets, finding the well-hidden pack. Luckily still half a pack there. She watches him, not saying another word.

 

He takes his time, knowing that he has avoided this pack for a couple weeks. Slowly pulling out two cigarettes, he twirls one in his fingers as she watches, giving her one last chance to change her mind. _But she never ever does, does she?_

 

He places it in her waiting palm, letting his fingertip caress it lightly as he puts his hand back down.

 

She puts it between her lips, and he mirrors her.

 

“Light?”

 

Without a word, he keeps ahold of her stare and finds matches in another pocket. Striking one, he puts it to his own cigarette but freezes as she moves oh so close. She leans down, her face inches from his as she angles hers into the match’s flame. He studies her lips. A quick puff and she straightens and walks away taking a deeper drag. She leans back against the counter, throwing her head back, blowing out a slow stream of smoke to the ceiling. He nearly curses as the match burns down to his fingers.

 

“Drink?” she asks rounding the corner into the kitchen.

 

"Really, it's that kind of night?" Sherlock pulls his Belstaff around him, folding his arms, cigarette hanging lazily at the corner of his mouth.  _Reflexive._   Self-aware he stands and takes it off, tossing it on the arm of the sofa

 

“Are you my mother or friend?” Her lips pull into a lazy smirk, but she gazes at him again, leaning forward on her arms on the counter. _Damn him and his tight shirts._

 

“The concerns of both not mutually exclusive,” he says with an eye-roll, taking his cigarette from his mouth as he flops back on the sofa.

 

“I drink, you knew this, and I smoke now, shattering your expectations I am sure,” she mocks. “Do. You. Want. A drink?”

 

“Sure.” He adds quickly, “No Beer.”

 

“Hmm, ok, I was thinking whiskey anyway. Beer, not something you can stomach?”

 

“It's been some time but my stomach clings  to the memory of that hangover.”

 

“It does that sometimes, like just the word or the smell makes you nauseous. It's just a memory but still...” She pulls down a bottle of Famous Grouse from the cabinet with two glasses, clinking in the quiet as she cuts her eyes to him to watch him typing on his mobile. She feels a tinge of embarrassment she didn’t have anything nicer but shakes it away.

 

“Do you think you are ok to drink, I mean, since…”

 

“Alcohol has and will never be an issue I assure you.”

 

She nods and pours them each two fingers worth. “Ice?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Same,” she snickers.

 

He makes note of it.

 

She hands him his glass, and he takes a quick swig.

 

She sips her slowly.

 

Noiselessly she takes a seat on the sofa only inches away from him. _Well, maybe that is a bit close but then...it’s my couch._

 

“Mines tequila. Used to love it on a night out with friends, never had an issue with it until…

 

He deduces she doesn’t want to say the name.

 

“Him” he murmurs out quickly, saving her the effort.

 

She nods with a shrug as she peers up at his face and he feels his chest twinge as her lips turn down. He shouldn't hold her gaze like he is now. _One day she’ll learn to read it and then you’ll be in trouble._

 

She swallows and takes another sip, letting the liquid swish against her lips as she thinks and then lowers it. _But God there is that look in his eyes, sadness? Affection? Fear?_ she ponders. If she could deduce exactly as he does, she might pinpoint it. But she only knows what it does to her when he holds her gaze. _Why does he?_ _Does he know how it makes the hair stand up on my neck at times?_  

 

He takes a long drag and blows out the smoke away from her. She stares at his lips watching the smoke caress them and realizes she needs to look away or her thoughts will stray where she is avoiding tonight. 

 

She peers down into her near-empty glass and stands, practically laying across the counter to grab the bottle. He did not avert his eyes as her jumper lifts. He studies the cream skin of her lower back and the curve of her spine. But he turns his head just in time for her to miss his reverie as she sits back down beside him.

 

He clears his throat, “How is…”

 

“Dating again.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Awkward silence again as she snuffs out her cigarette on a plate on the coffee table and he mirrors the same action. 

 

“I guess that tells me where I stood. But it felt good while it lasted.” She bites her lip, looking down at her hands nervously running her thumb along the side of the glass.

 

_He started this, might as well say what you feel._

 

"Just... when I got used to feeling wanted, he took that feeling back. Like it wasn’t mine to have. Like he gave it to me by accident,” she murmurs with squinted eyes, feeling the past sussing itself out with the aid of alcohol and nicotine. _And him._

 

“Love, as I understand it now, is a much more deliberate process. If he gave it accidentally, as you surmise, then he never loved you at all.”

 

“God, you’re an arse.”

 

Her eyes giving the best rebuke she could manage. Holding his, she makes him drop the stare first. She wants to tell him it’s not that simple; the words sit there on her tongue but her mouth trembles as her eyes begin to ache. She focuses back forward and rubs her face with her hands, trying to massage out the tension threatening to turn to tears.

 

He realizes too late perhaps those weren’t the right words.

 

“Molly, I’m sorry, I wasn’t exact in my words.”

 

“Or sensitive.”

 

“Yes, that too.”

 

She let a couple tears find their way out; it seemed the threat of more was not imminent as she feared.

 

“I am not sure you loved him either,” he says matter factually.

 

The lump she swallowed comes back up.

 

“Oh God, Sherlock. We were engaged to be married. I was going to say I do, and I thought happily. Please try to remember that.”

 

“You stabbed his hand with a fork, Molly."

 

“Yes... but..."

 

“Why did you do that?”

 

“Because he kept talking, thinking he was clever. He wasn’t.”

 

“Why do something violent?”

 

She couldn’t put her finger on the issue. Partly because she had just enough distance from it to cloud the memory and another feeling she’d rather not discuss with present and relevant company.

 

She just shrugs instead.

 

“I’ve stated my opinion that he did not love you. It seems better wording to say enough to be exact. I’ll give him more credit than I did before,” Sherlock softens his tone, staring down but back up to test her reaction.

 

She half smiles, still feeling an ache in her chest, “I think I appreciate that. God, he wasn’t awful at all. He was kind, and normal and willing.”

 

“But not for you.”

 

“I know but I mean, would you, I ... would you think that would be enough?” she asks, her eyes falling in deeper thought.

 

“People like you and I do not seem to do well with traditional paths.”

 

She laughs again, this time in a sad way he hates that he is too familiar with.

 

“You called it once; that not all them could be sociopaths.”

 

He frowns, raising an eyebrow at her. “But Tom wasn’t. I am 100 percent positive of this.”

 

She swirls the liquor in her glass, watching the liquid work its way up the sides before turning the glass up to her lips and swallowing the whole amount. The burn hit her throat, and the fire helps her stop to plan her words.

 

“Maybe they are just my type.” _Shit, I shouldn’t have said that._

 

His eyes scan her face, soaking up the words. Like he had heard them in his head before, reading them on her lips many times. He shakes his head, checking if he was slipping into his own mind. _Don’t let her stay with that thought,_ he pushes himself.

 

“Maybe you should consider stopping.”

 

“I should. I can do better,” she sighs, leaning back into the sofa.

 

“I meant the drinking... but yes, you can do much better.”

 

 _How many times can we do this?_ they think at the same time but keep it to their own minds.

 

The silence suddenly feels deafening, her heartbeat jumping in her ears, so she changes the subject.

 

“Sherlock, did you come here tonight to...to keep from using?” she asks with caution. She knows the answer, but she wants him to admit it if he can. 

 

His turn to shrug.

 

But as she lays her hand on his arm, he stares at it sitting lightly there, contrasting on the white fabric. He feels his skin warm under her touch and his mind goes blank for the moment.

 

But he regains his sense.

 

“Perhaps...can’t be sure. I saw your lights on and decided we both needed each other's presence.”

 

With a squeeze, she releases his arm, and he contemplates the absence.

 

“Well, then I am glad you came by...you know you always can.”

 

“I know...perhaps you should not be so giving of your personal space,” He furrows his brow, examining his own words after they are said.

 

“How many times do you need to be reminded that’s what friends do?” She searches his face for hints of understanding.

 

“Many more times I am afraid.”

 

They smile at each other knowingly.

 

She sets her empty glass down on the side table.

 

“Telly?”

 

“No soap operas or crime shows,” he insists.

 

She leans back over to the side table, grabbing the remote and settling back next to him, a little closer than either expected.

 

But neither one protests nor shifts away as she sits with her legs folded and her knee touches his thigh.

 

“Oh look, Great British Bake Off...though I am sure--”

 

“No, leave it. It's perfect.”

 

She smirks at him, “I never took you to be a baking show fan.”

 

“The science alone of baking is fascinating. I was a graduate chemist remember.”

 

“Mmmhmm,” she murmurs skeptically.

 

“Would you believe studying personalities and deducing when they will fail or succeed?”

 

She snickers, “Ok I’ll accept that for now.”

 

He smirks in return as they both keep their eyes on the screen.

 

“You know I love baking. If you ever want to bake with me, let me know.”

 

His eyes cut to the side to study her face. It is peaceful, not hesitant or anxious. Serene and it soothes something in him, covering a nerve with warm comfort.

 

He settles back into the sofa, relaxing his shoulders.

 

“I might take you up on the offer and show you how a chemist bakes which is unfairly superior I imagine,” he grins smugly.

 

She smacks his arm, “The game is on, you smug bastard.”

 

He laughs at her using his own words on him.

 

“Now, shh. It's the last challenge. This is always the best part.”

 

And they sit, watching two more episodes, arguing over who is Top Baker and who is going home. Somewhere in the third episode, she drifts off to sleep. He counters one of her opinions and she didn’t argue back. He pulls a blanket from the top of the sofa, and covers her with, taking care not to disturb her.

 

He feels the pull again, and a desire to leave to answer it. But he watches her slow breathing, eyes fluttering lightly as she dreams. He focuses on the curves of her face, pushing the irritation away with each rumination as his eyes closed and sleep finds him as well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from Hozier's "Movement" which I listened to a lot writing this. actually, there are a couple lyrics I considered.


End file.
